


House Calls

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Babe Heffron and Bill Guarnere make small cameos, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, a few other guys mentioned, i dont know how to tag yet, like Muck and Penk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: Generally speaking, George Luz is a happy guy. But every now and again, the jokester gets stressed out just like everybody else. On those rare occasions when George quiets down and withdraws into himself, the guys—like Muck, Lipton, and Frank—back off and give George the space he seems to want.Joe Toye is not like those guys.OR: When Luz becomes an introvert, he lets Joe into his safety bubble—and Joe kinda loves it.





	House Calls

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the Band of Brothers miniseries for the first time this January (late to the party, much?), and created an AO3 account just for these boys.
> 
> No disrespect is meant to the real life heroes of Easy Company. Any mentions here are based solely on the portrayals of the men in the HBO miniseries, not the actual men themselves. I have the utmost respect towards the men of the 506th and their families! 
> 
> Un-beta'd.   
> Hope you enjoy!

Generally speaking, George Luz is a happy guy. And he's usually more than willing to share that happiness with those around him, constantly cracking jokes or doing an impression—often at his own expense—just to make his pals laugh. But, like everybody else, George's life isn't perfect, and like everybody else, the jokester sometimes gets stressed out. When—after months of silent suffering and worrying—the mounting stress gets to be too much, George visibly deflates and withdraws into himself. He's disturbingly quiet, prone to headaches, and often disappears, holed away in his apartment for days on end, only to emerge a week or so later, refreshed and chatting happily once again. Most of George's friends have no problem with these random episodes. Guys like Malarkey and Muck just assume that the quiet solitude is what George needs since he's always better afterwards. Guys like Gonorrhea and Liebgott have no fucking clue how to handle a quiet Luz, so they resign to leaving him alone. Guys like Lipton and Doc Roe respect George enough to give him the space he seems to want.

Joe Toye is not like those guys.

He doesn't always show up, but sometimes when George retreats into his own little world for a few days, Joe will pop by George's apartment with a six pack and take out. They don't talk much outside of the typical "Hey, man" and "S'it Chinese or Thai?" and "Hand me that fork, will ya?" They'll eat in a companionable silence, the radio white noise in the background. They'll drink their beer and maybe watch an episode of _NCIS_ or _Criminal Minds_ before Joe helps clear away the empty to-go containers and says, “See ya later, Luz.”

And even though Joe knows he isn't really doing anything to relieve George's stress, somehow he knows that just him being there is enough—because George never complains, never asks him to leave, and Joe happens to know that George never lets anyone but Joe come over when he's like this.

They never talk about it afterward when George reemerges, all shit-eating grins and quick wit and talking ninety miles an hour, to join their friends for a round at Nixon's bar or to go to one of Webster's nerdy poetry readings or to cheer on Buck at one of his minor league games. Nothing ever changes between George and Joe, and none of their friends are the wiser.

Well, nothing ever changes, of course, until it does.

When George answers the door, his eyes are screwed shut and he's pinching the bridge of his nose. "What?" he asks without looking. "Whatta ya want?"

Joe replies plainly, "Brought a pizza."

George winces, blinks his eyes once or twice, before stepping aside with a small, "Hey, Joe," to let his friend inside. All of the lights in the apartment are off, the radio and TV silent. George shuts the door and slinks off to the couch, dropping down gingerly, half-curling against the arm rest in obvious pain as Joe sets the pizza on the kitchen counter.

"You want me to go?" Its the first time Joe has ever felt unsure that his presence is welcome. He's never seen George in pain like this.

"No, no Joe, its fine. I'm just..." George sighs exasperated. "I've got this _bitching_ headache, and I can't-"

He breaks off with a small groan of frustration and rubs his palms into the sockets of his eyes.

"Where is it? The pain?" Joe's mom was plagued with chronic migraines when he was a kid, and he knows a few tricks that soothe and ease that kind of pain.

George makes some sluggish hand gestures. "Sorta...all over. Everywhere. I dunno."

Joe drops next to his friend on the small couch, their knees brushing. "Dig your thumbs in here and here-" He motions with his hands. "-and rub in slow circles."

"Uh, yeah? Okay. Like this?" George makes a few sloppy attempts to rub his temples and the sides of his head. But if his frown is any indication, the half-hearted efforts aren't helping.

"You're doing it wrong," Joe points out. "No, just, stop. Here, like this..."

Joe takes George's face in his hands, his thumbs coming to rest on the shorter man's temples. Joe's long fingers cup George's cheeks, his fingertips getting lost in George's thick, dark hair, and he begins to slowly dig his thumbs into the tense muscles along the sides of George's head. George's eyes flutter shut almost immediately. Exhausted from the pain, his body surrenders to Joe's skillful manipulation as some of the pounding in his skull begins to dull.

"Christ, George, you're tense," Joe mutters, fingers working in earnest to relieve some of his friend's pain. As his fingers move against George's scalp, the day or so's worth of stubble growing along George's cheek scrapes against Joe's palm, and Joe notes, faintly, that the sensation is not unpleasant.

"No kidding," George mumbles. He's gone sort of slack under Joe's deft hands, body slumping forward a touch, shoulders slagging. "Jesus, Joe..."

And then George's hand is on Joe's thigh in an effort to stable himself and stay upright, because, Christ, whatever magic Joe is working on his head right now is making his body feel like goo. George's gonna melt right into a puddle at any moment, he just knows it.

And...George's hand is on Joe's thigh. Suddenly, Joe is feeling fidgety. The weight of George's hand feels much heavier than Joe knows it should. It feels warm through Joe's jeans. Almost hot. Joe wonders if he's beginning to sweat because of it.

Given their proximity, even in the dark of the apartment, Joe is able to notice the dark semi-circles under George's eyes and the pale tint of his cheeks. He attempts to focus on those and not the heat radiating down his leg from George's touch. "You been sleepin', George?"

"Not really," George admits, before adding, "But keep it up, Joe, and I'll be out like a light in a few minutes. No doubt, buddy."

George's head lulls a bit, and Joe thinks that maybe George can afford to skip dinner tonight if he can get some decent sleep. The pizza forgotten on the kitchen counter, Joe stands, his thighs tingling where George's hand was only seconds before, and coaxes his friend to his feet. "C'mon, man, let's get you to bed."

George makes a weak attempt at a grin. "Tryin' to seduce me, Joe?" He waves his hand lazily. "M'fine, really. Let's eat. You want a beer? There's beer in th-" But as George moves to stand, he winces and sways, eyes once more clamping shut.

Joe's hands surge forward on instinct and latch onto George's hips, steadying his friend. "Damnit, George..." He sighs. Why does George let it get this bad? Why doesn't he try to de-stress sooner, before it gets to this point? Shaking his head disapprovingly, Joe tugs his friend along towards the bedroom and asserts firmly, "Don't argue."

George collapses on the bed without complaint. Joe makes a half-assed attempt to cover George with the comforter strewn across the mattress before he heads out. He makes a quick trip to the convenience store down the block, picks up a few things, and doubles back to George's apartment. Letting himself in, he sets the medicine and the pack of cigarettes he'd bought for George on the nightstand beside the bed. He can't tell if George is asleep or not. Joe hesitates for a minute or two, then decides he should leave. He's halfway down the hall when he hears George's sleep-heavy voice. "Thanks, Joe."

The next time Joe sees George, the shorter man looks markedly better. The worry lines around his eyes and mouth are pulled into a grin, and the color has been restored in his cheeks. They're at some party at Johnny Martin's place, and when George spots Joe in the kitchen, George appears sort of sheepish and the soft "Hey, Joe" he gives seems different somehow. Unsure what to do with these subtle changes, Joe just nods and keeps listening to Babe's latest anecdote about his new roommate Julian. "Goddamn virgin, can you believe it?"

Sometime later, George runs into Joe coming out of the bathroom and offers him a dirty joke about priests and toothbrushes. It catches him off guard, but George doesn't seem deterred by his lack of laughter. He barrels straight on with the conversation, anyhow, "Ya know, Joe, Gene may be the one in med school, but you did a hell of a job playing doctor the other day."

Joe shrugs. "My mom used to get bad migraines," he offers up this information by way of explanation and almost regrets the slip when he sees George's ears literally perk up. As a rule, Joe doesn't talk about his family. Not to anyone. Not even George, who is probably his closest friend among their rag-tag bunch. So the fact that he willingly offered up something about his mom makes George curious.

George must sense Joe's unease, however, because he chooses not to acknowledge the lapse, and instead, ushers Joe into the living room. The dart board is free, and George is in a betting mood. “C'mon, pack of smokes. Just a pack, c'mon.”

The next time George pulls his “de-stress disappearing act,” Joe arrives at George's apartment the very next day with a bottle of Execedrin in hand, just in case. Joe expects the evening to follow their normal routine—cheap beer, even cheaper food, and little conversation. Only, it doesn't. George visibly balloons when Joe shows up, and he chats animatedly as he welcomes him inside.

They're halfway through their Korean barbecue when Joe takes a long sip from his beer and says, pointedly, "You don't have to do this, ya know."

George's brow furrows ever-so-slightly. He gives a confused, half-smile. "Do what?"

"Be... _on_ for me. You don't-" Joe struggles to get the words right. He doesn't want to sound like an asshole. "You don't have to perform with me, alright? You can just relax."

Joe worries that the word "perform" implies that George is fake with their other friends. He worries that George is going to call him a dick and kick him out. But George's lips just tug upwards in a slow, gentle smile. He leans back in his chair, lounging, and considers his own beer bottle. When he speaks, its quietly and with a soft shake of his head, "You surprise me sometimes, Joe...you're very perceptive. People don't give you enough credit."

Joe doesn't know about that, but he doesn't argue.

They finish their food and settle on the couch to watch some shitty suspense thriller. As usual, the two of them more than fill the cramped space of George's tiny sofa, their sides flushed together, their legs bumping. It's never been a problem before, but now, everywhere George's body presses against Joe's, its warm. Too warm like George's hand the other night. The contact makes Joe restless. He can't sit still, can't focus on the movie—not even to enjoy the fact that George isn't echoing the words on screen or ad-libbing for the actors—, can't quit bouncing his knee up and down.

The commotion must get to George because he eventually reaches out and pushes down on Joe's knee to stop the movement. Their gazes meet, and Joe refuses to look apologetic, though he does cease the annoying bounce. But George doesn't trust him to stop on his own, so he leaves his hand firmly splayed across Joe's knee to deter further movement. Then, a few minutes later when a commercial featuring some pop song plays, George taps his thumb along with the beat against Joe's leg.

"How come you get to tap, but I don't get to bounce?" Joe demands, his voice aiming for no-nonsense but falling somewhere closer to amused.

George doesn't bother looking away from the TV as he replies, "I don't make the rules, Joe, I just live here."

Joe huffs and reaches for George's still-tapping thumb. He intends to simply grab George's hand to still the tapping, but after several seconds, Joe realizes that he's just laced his fingers through George's own. He is literally holding hands with goddamn George Luz while on his couch watching a movie like they're thirteen-years-old.

Joe is too frazzled by the unforeseen turn of events to feel embarrassed quite yet, but he's sure it'll hit him soon enough. He briefly considers apologizing when he realizes that George hasn't made a move to withdraw his hand from Joe's. In fact, George's fingers are curled around his hand. _George_ is holding Joe's hand _back_.

What the fuck is going on?

If Joe found it hard to concentrate on the movie before, now its damn near impossible. George's hand is smooth and warm and solid against his palm, the fingers free of the callouses that pepper his own skin. Every now and then, George sweeps his thumb across Joe's wrist, and Joe has to keep from shivering every time.

This is definitely not how things normally went.

When the end credits roll on the film, George sighs as his thumb strokes the soft inside of Joe's wrist. "That was such a crappy movie. I can't believe we actually watched it. What a load of shit."

Joe stares at the TV without really looking. Was it a shitty movie? Joe wouldn't know—he hadn't been watching.

George's hand still secure in his grasp, Joe checks the time on his phone. He tries to ignore the reluctance he feels when he says, "I should probably head out. Got work in the morning."

"Yeah, of course." But neither make a move to relinquish the other's hand.

Joe looks down at their interlocked fingers resting on his leg. He feels George fidget beside him before the man swipes his thumb once more over Joe's wrist. "Joe, I..." George glances up, unsure, and finally settles into something of a smile. "Thanks for coming over, Joe."

"Anytime."

Their hands fall apart as they stand from the couch. Slipping back into his boots, Joe fetches his coat and keys and allows George to walk him to the door. "Goodnight, Joe."

"Night, George."

A few weeks pass, and neither George nor Joe seem interested in bringing up whatever the fuck had happened at Luz's place that night. Everything, it seems, is slowly going back to normal. That is until Joe gets wounded on the job, of course.

George is at Nix's place, the 506th, nursing a beer with Malark and Penk, waiting for the others to show up so they can all head to the poker game that Bull Randleman is hosting. Only, when Bill and Babe finally slink in and announce that Joe won't be coming, George finds himself out on the front stoop of Joe's house, instead.

Joe answers the door on crutches.

"Christ, Joe, what happened?"

"Fucked up my ankle at work. What're you doing here, George?"

As George slips into Joe's small but cozy home, he snorts. "Didn't realize you had the monopoly on house calls."

Joe doesn't blush at that, but he's damn near close. He forces his voice to remain in a casual, unaffected tone. "I just know you had high hopes for that game tonight, that's all."

"Eh, no big deal." George shrugs. "I'll hustle 'em some other time."

Because George is totally unprepared—classic, really—, they order a pizza and turn on Netflix. Joe's been ordered to elevate his ankle, so George ends up sitting with Joe's feet in his lap. The ankle in question is swollen and smattered with various shades of blue and purple and yellow.

"Jesus, Joe," George breathes, fingers ghosting over the colorful skin. Joe hisses and flinches back a little when George presses too hard, and George's eyes instantly go wide. "Shit, man, I'm sorry."

In his panic to soothe the pain he caused, George grabs at Joe's calf and starts to massage his way down Joe's leg. When he reaches Joe's ankle, his fingers dance along the non-bruised skin, barely touching the other man. George also takes a moment to stroke a few fingers up the sole of Joe's foot. Goddamn it, his ankle is _so_ swollen.

"Don't you need to ice it?" George asks, looking to Joe. He catches his friend staring at him with an odd expression. "What? Did you already ice it?"

Joe nods numbly, still eyeing him with something George can't pinpoint, and the doorbell rings.

Dinner is a quick affair, and when it's over, George makes Joe another ice pack. He resettles on the couch, holding the ice carefully against Joe's tender flesh.

"You don't have to do that. You can just lay it on my ankle."

George cuts Joe a bored stare. "Hey, Joe, just watch the movie, alright? And let me take care of you for once."

That makes Joe pause. Take care of him? Is that was George thinks Joe's been doing all this time? "I don't take care of you."

"Yeah, you do, Joe," he says this simply.

"That was one time." Joe means the Night of the Awful Headaches, but George means everything else. He says as much to Joe.

"You were right the other night when you told me I, uh, didn't have to perform. You...you just let me be, Joe."

Joe sucks in his bottom lip thoughtfully, considering George's declaration, and George is overwhelmed with the sudden urge to take Joe's lip between his own teeth. The thought hits him so abruptly and powerfully that its like a punch to the gut. "Fuck, Joe."

The room tenses, the air grows thick, and—

George swipes his thumb mindlessly across Joe's hurt ankle.

"Why do you do that?"

George blinks. "Do what?" he asks earnestly.

Joe motions the thumb casually stroking his bruised skin. George glances down and starts, as if only then realizing what he was doing. He jerks his hands back, one draping across the back of the couch, the other falling on the armrest. "Sorry, man, I-I didn't..."

Joe shakes his head slowly, his eyes boring into George with an intensity that should be illegal. "S'okay."

"It is?" And no, George's voice did not squeak, thank you very much. He clears his throat and shifts on the couch, totally failing at subtly dropping his hand back down to caress Joe's ankle, which causes Joe to smirk. George rolls his eyes and aims for changing the topic.

"How long do you have to keep off it?" he asks without looking away from Joe's ankle, his fingers still working the tender flesh.

Joe watches him carefully, eyes the concentration on George's face, the steady lines of his mouth. This is all a little too much and should make Joe twitchy, but instead, something comfortable and warm settles in the pit of Joe's stomach and his entire body thrums with something like adrenaline. "The doctor said about a week, but Gene thinks I can head back to work by Thursday if I take it easy."

As Doc Roe predicted, Joe only spends three more days propped up on the couch, and for those three days, George comes around with dinner every evening at six pm without fail. Joe would never admit it, but these dinners rapidly become the best part of his day. Joe hates laying up all day with nothing to do but smoke his way through a carton of cigarettes and watch _M.A.S.H._ reruns. But the second George gets there, he's all wide grins and cheap jokes and sneaky eyes—and Joe kind of loves it.

Loves it so much that when his ankle heals and he gets to abandon the crutches and head back to work, he's a little disappointed that George won't be by for dinner that night. Thankfully, Joe's disappointment lasts only the one shift—because there's a knock on his front door shortly after he gets home from his first day back.

"Yeah?"

He's greeted by the biggest, toothiest smile he's ever seen, and two six packs of beer. "Back to work today, right?" George asks, shouldering passed Joe and inside the apartment. "That means no more pain meds. Which means drinking. Tonight, we celebrate!"

And Joe can't help but grin, his stomach fluttering happily. "Alright, yeah. Let's do it."

In classic Joe Toye and George Luz fashion, they drink way too much and throwing back to their college days by mixing liquor with beer, despite knowing better. They end up stuffed together on Joe's couch, laughing hysterically at some office gossip that George has just recounted—full voice impressions and all—while a football game plays in the background. Joe's entire body is shaking from laughter, and he leans back into the comfy couch, slinging his arm around George's shoulders and pulling the shorter man into his side. "You're something else, Luz, I swear."

"Eh, well," George chuckles. "I do what I can."

As their laughter slowly recedes, they settle some, sipping their beers and watching the game on TV. Joe isn't sure when his fingers start to move, but sometime during the third quarter, he begins to absentmindedly stroke George's shoulder, his long fingers dragging over George's sweater in long, smooth lines. He's too drunk to really care about the implications of what he's doing, except to note that he's enjoying it more than he probably should. Besides, George doesn't seem to mind.

The shorter man presses into Joe under his shoulder, their sides flushed together intimately. He brings his hand to rest on Joe's thigh, the other clutching his near-empty beer, and slowly drums his fingers along Joe's leg. George hums along with the tapping, and Joe scoffs good-naturedly. "You and that damn tapping."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Joe. Is this bothering you?" George retorts and proceeds to drum his fingers even harder.

Joe laughs, pulling George into a half-assed headlock and dragging his knuckles playfully, affectionately through George's shaggy hair. He drops his mouth to George's ear. "You're a shithead, ya know that?"

"Joe, you know how I feel about sweet-talking." And though he means it as a joke, Joe's breath is so hot on his ear and the slight brush of Joe's lips against his skin makes George's breath hitch and his words come out all hot-and-bothered-sounding. He turns to look at Joe, their faces only breaths apart now, and George can't tell what's making him buzz worse: the alcohol or having Joe this close.

"Hey, Georgie," Joe whispers when their eyes meet. His pupils are blown wide with something that, George thinks (hopes), looks like lust.

George licks his lips and parrots back. "Hiya, Joe."

There's no missing the way that Joe's gaze darts down to George's mouth when George swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. No missing the way Joe shifts just a little closer, which seems impossible given the way they've practically molded into a single person there on the couch. No missing, either, the way that George's stomach jolts when he realizes that he likes Joe looking at his mouth. He likes it a lot.

"Joe, what would you do if I-" He knows he'll probably regret this tomorrow, or sooner if Joe decides to fucking punch him or something, but George is feeling all warm and fuzzy, and he decides to chase the sensation. He wants more, _now_ , and he's never really been known for his patience.

George surges forward to kiss Joe.

Much to his surprise and delight, Joe responds instantly, almost meeting him halfway. He curls a large hand around George's hip and shifts them so he's sorta looming over George as he presses him back into the couch. Joe's mouth is hot, his lips full against George's mouth, and holy fuck, he would'a kissed Joe sooner if he'd known it was gonna be like this.

George let's Joe settle on top him, the full weight of the taller man pressing into him deliciously. Joe's body is all lean muscle and coiled strength, and George's hands can't get enough. His fingers skim under Joe's tee-shirt to dance across Joe's smooth, lower belly and to drag a shiver outta Joe.

George hums against Joe's mouth, loving the way Joe's body ripples against his own. The not-quite moan inspires Joe into action. He ruts his hips against George, their crotches grinding, and fuck, that gets George moaning real quick, his dick starting to get hard. Joe cups his jaw, thumb sweeping across his cheek as he tilts George's head to drag hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck.

George hadn't come in his pants since he was a teenager, but there in Joe's living room, with Joe's tongue on his collarbone and Joe's half-hard dick thrusting against his cock causing a delicious sort of friction from their jeans—well, George needs to get his pants off, and soon.

"Fuck, Joe, need-" His hips buck, and Joe groans, biting down hard on George's shoulder, hard enough to make George hiss.

“Whatta ya need, Georgie?” Joe breathes, his gravelly voice a thousand times rougher, sexier, all thick with want. “Tell me what you want, George.”

And George tries, he really does, but its all too much. Having Joe everywhere all around him, his voice, his breath, his body—that fucking sinfully good mouth working at George's collarbone and the column of his neck. How the fuck is George suppose to think right now, let alone string together a coherent sentence?

So, George just pitifully makes a show of reaching for Joe's jeans and undoing the button, all the while panting and biting back a moan. “Gotta—need— _c'mon_ , Joe—”

He feels Joe smile against his skin. “Yeah, alright, Georgie.” And so there on Joe's couch like a couple of horny teenagers, they work their jeans open and rub their dicks together—all the while muttering dirty, shameless things—until they're both wrecked and reduced to panting, sweaty messes, and when it's over, they look at one another and things just sort of stop.

A beat passes before George finally lets out a shuddered breath. “What – the _fuck_ – was that?” It sounds much breathier than he intended it to, and he knows he must look like hell, eyes half-lidded, hair mused and teased in all directions, dick still out. 

Joe, though, still looks perfect. 

“I don't know, George.” And goddamn if Joe's voice doesn't sound even huskier, even sexier still, all breathless and fucked. 

The post-sex drum of adrenaline and alcohol still buzzing in their veins, they make a sloppy show of tucking themselves back into their jeans and wiping their hands clean on their thighs. Joe doesn't look at him while they right themselves, and George feels the panic starting to bubble up. He's seconds away from apologizing, from frantically begging that they forget the whole thing because George  _cannot_ lose Joe. Joe's his best fucking friend, whether the other man realizes it or not.

But Joe turns to him suddenly, and says, very quickly, “Let me try something.”

Then, Joe is kissing him, and its like moments ago, only its not. The hand on his jaw is warm and strong and familiar, as are the lips moving against his own. But unlike earlier's fevered exchange, this kiss is tender and slow and makes George's insides curl pleasantly. 

Joe's thumb strokes George's cheek affectionately, kissing him with a gentleness that promises something more than drunken, messy hand jobs. 

When the kiss breaks, Joe looks at George with those big, damn deep eyes, that fucking gorgeous stare. Joe hesitates, fingers cradling George's face. “S'is okay...?” 

He means more than kisses. More than random sex. He means continued dinners and evenings spent watching shitty TV and unwinding from long days at work. He means slow, meaningful sex—and dirty, quick fucks, too. He means more than friends with benefits. He means him and George giving this thing a shot. Giving  _them_ a shot. Possibly forever, if George will have him.

And when George breaks out with a grin so damn wide that it looks as if it might split his face in two, Joe's chest feels light. “Yeah, Joe, yeah, its okay.” 

Then, they kiss again, and don't stop. 

 

 


End file.
